Such dramatic images from the volcanic eruption in Guatemala. When Mt. Saint Helens in Washington erupted in 1980, the ash floated all the way down here to San Francisco. My husband and I visited the site a few years later–whole forests lay parallel and bare like matchsticks, blown down and denuded by the hot winds the eruption generated. Already, tiny little plants were growing, celebrated in an announcer’s exultant voice as “burgeoning life” in the film at the Visitors’ Center, triumphal music rising in the background. It was a lot like a 1930s propaganda film for the National Socialists.
Started on a walk around our hill yesterday afternoon, but got into such pain I had to come home, despite loading with ibuprofen and all my other lotions and potions and using my cane. So this morning, I made one sortie to my neighborhood shopping area, where I got two completely delicious croissants so fresh from the oven they were still hot, and now am home for the day. I’ll read, cook, putter, do my exercises, maybe sit out in the garden a bit, though it bothers me how run down it is. Looking out the window now, I see sprawling lemon verbena that needs trimming, an herb spiral that looks like a rock dump, two-foot high brown crab grass in the corner, and Vinnie, the sleek black cat from up the hill, who adds a sorely needed decorative touch.
Sparkling blue and beautiful today, now that the fog’s burned off. White moths are fluttering around the grape vine, an occasional white gull glides by overhead, and a dozen or more crows are circling the neighborhood in search of whatever it is crows search for. This morning, when I was still half asleep, I heard Canada geese honking their way across the sky. September. Even in coastal California, autumn’s on its way.